


His Just Deserts

by Bottlegreen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, British school corporal punishment, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Humiliation, Humor, M/M, Scolding, Slipper, Slow Build, Spanking, Student Sherlock, Teacher John Watson, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlegreen/pseuds/Bottlegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s repeated bad behaviour leaves Doctor Watson no choice but to administer a hard disciplinary spanking. How humiliating for a boy of his age to be punished in such a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s barbarous,” said Sherlock indignantly. “They spank the boys here. Even the sixth-formers!”

There was no immediate response from the other end of the line.

“ _Spank_ them, Mycroft,” he repeated enunciating the word and ignoring the tittering of the boys in the queue behind him. Clearly his brother was going deaf in his old age. “They line them up in assembly and lead them onto the stage and the headmaster bends them over a table and whacks them with a cane. You can’t possibly expect me to stay here.”

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft, his voice coming thin and crackly from wherever it was he was currently stationed, “had you not contrived to be expelled from every other decent school in the country, it wouldn't have come to this.”

“Does Mother know?” Sherlock demanded. “Does Father?”

“They do not,” said Mycroft. “And I do suggest you keep it that way, Sherlock. You have run them ragged these last few years and we are not made of money, despite what you may think. Mummy has had to sell a Burne-Jones.”

“Angels,” said Sherlock dismissively.

“Ghastly,” Mycroft agreed. “Still if you keep it up, sooner or later we’ll have to start selling the good stuff.”

“Well, it wouldn't do to blow your inheritance.”

“Nor indeed yours,” said Mycroft irritatingly unruffled. He, of course, was not the one whose bottom was at threat of a painful whacking. “And anyway, you'll never be allowed to play with the really interesting chemicals if you keep being expelled.”

“I’m not playing,” he said resentfully, but though he was loath to admit it, his brother had a point. He had come to a similar realisation over the summer holidays. If he wanted to read Chemistry at University he needed good predicted grades and a sound academic reference. The admissions tutors had been unanimous.

“The school has an excellent reputation,” Mycroft continued as though reading his mind. “It’s true it has a traditional-”

“Barbaric!”

“-approach to discipline but it also has very good A-level results. It's possible, of course, that the two are linked. Still I see no reason why you cannot avoid the former and achieve the latter. It is, after all, only for a few more terms.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Sherlock, but he could see the logic. Both his grades and his references were somewhat lacking at present.

“Think of it as a challenge. I would not have arranged it, Sherlock, if I did not have every confidence in your ability not to be caught,” said Mycroft and hung up, leaving Sherlock listening to the dialling tone.

 

* * *

 

His introduction to what Mycroft had termed the school's 'traditional' approach had taken place earlier that week during double Biology. The class had been studying the structure of the heart and were about to embark upon a dissection of their own. Sherlock was standing poised with his scalpel when something solid but distressingly squashy hit him between the shoulder blades. He didn't need to look down to know a cow’s heart rolled at his feet. He picked it up and placed it on the bench, next to his own carefully prepared specimen.

“Townsend!” barked the Biology master, whose name was Watson. “What the hell was that?”

Townsend, a large red-faced boy without the wit to ensure the master’s back was fully turned before he started to pick on the new boy, muttered something inaudible.

“Come here,” said Watson. Sherlock had put him down as a genial little fellow with questionable taste in jumpers but the steel in Watson’s voice made him revise his opinion.

Townsend walked to the front of the classroom, dragging his feet.

“Did you just throw a cow’s heart at another student?” Watson said.

“No sir,” said Townsend, who really wasn't very bright.

Watson gave him a hard stare. He was not a large man but it was a stare of considerable force. Townsend flushed redder and hung his head.

“It’s right _there_ , Townsend,” said Watson and pointed to Sherlock’s bench where the two hearts sat next to each other in silent testimony, one rather squashed.

“Yes sir.”

“Now, did you just throw a cow’s heart at another student?”

“Yes sir,” Townsend confessed.

“All right. Do you want them here, or do I give you a chit?” Watson said.

Sherlock frowned in incomprehension. A strange thrumming tension had fallen over the class. Not the normal repressed glee of a group of schoolboys watching one of their number be reprimanded, but something more pronounced.

“Here please, sir,” said Townsend. A low sigh ran around the room.

“All right,” said Watson. “The rest of you can sit down and be quiet.”

The class sat as one, the scraping of stool legs against floorboards the only sound. Watson reached behind the blackboard and drew out a three foot wooden ruler, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. Sherlock's eyes widened. Surely he wasn't going to-

“Bend over my desk,” Watson said. “Face the blackboard.”

Townsend was a heavy-set boy, broad in the beam and not very graceful. He lumbered over to the front desk and bent as instructed, resting his weight on his forearms. Sherlock, sitting in the first row, had an uninterrupted view of his ample backside with the grey flannel trousers stretched tightly across.

“Right,” Watson said. “You’re getting six for mucking about in class and another six for damaging school property,” the heart, Sherlock assumed. “Count ‘em.”

He took position to Townsend’s right and paused for a second, eyeing his target. Then he drew back his arm and let swing. The ruler landed with an audible thwack right across the broadest part of the boy’s buttocks. They flattened for a moment under the impact before rebounding into shape. Sherlock flinched in shock.

Townsend gave a grunt of pain. “One,” he said.

Watson frowned. “One and?”

“I must behave myself in class,” said Townsend, clearly no stranger to the protocol.

Watson nodded in satisfaction then took aim and let fly again. The second stroke landed a centimetre above the first. Dr Watson, Sherlock noted distantly, had a good eye.

Townsend grunted again, louder this time. “Two. Ah! I must behave myself in class.”

Watson was clearly not a man who believed in prolonging the agony. He shot off the next four in rapid succession, each stroke landing squarely across the centre of Townsend's heavy cheeks. By the time he’d finished Townsend’s grunts had turned into gasping yelps, his bottom jiggling under the onslaught.

“Stay there,” Watson commanded. “We’re not done.” He moved to Townsend’s left flank and swapped the ruler to his other hand. “This time we’ll have: ‘I must not damage school property,’” he decided.

Sitting at the laboratory bench, his hands folded neatly in front of him, Sherlock experienced three distinct and conflicting sensations. The first was the pleasant thrill of seeing a foe receive his just deserts in such a prompt and energetic fashion. The second was shock and dawning horror that the school would choose to discipline its pupils in such a way - not just the beating, but the humiliatingly public spectacle of being bent over and punished in front of the whole class. The third was the troubling realisation that he was uncomfortably and profoundly erect. When he looked around he saw he was not alone. The majority of the boys had their arms crossed and were staring at the ceiling with obvious discomfort but one or two had leant forward, their eyes sparkling with every crack.

“Twelve!” Townsend gasped. “I must not damage school property.”

“All right,” said Watson. “That’s your lot. Get back there and don’t ever let me catch you doing something like that again.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” said Townsend and shuffled back down the aisle. His face was red and blotched and he avoided the eyes of his classmates. His bottom must be throbbing after that drubbing Sherlock thought, turning to watch him go. It was as well they would be standing for the dissection.

“Okay, um, it is Holmes, isn’t it?”

Sherlock jumped. Dr Watson had put away the ruler and was standing at his side waiting for a response.

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock staring straight ahead. His skin across his cheekbones felt hot and tight. He prayed Watson wouldn't glance down at his lap where his cock was doing its level best to prod its way through his thick school trousers.

“Not the best welcome to the school.”

“No sir.”

“We don’t normally go in for throwing body parts around the place. Not even when they're from cows. Haha.”

“No sir.”

“Still I don’t think it will happen again.”

Sherlock thought of Townsend’s red blotchy face. He didn't think it would happen again either. “No sir.”

“No permanent damage?”

Sherlock risked stealing him a glance. Watson’s expression was frank and open, showing nothing but mild concern for his new pupil. It was hard to believe this was the same man he had just seen whacking Townsend's fat bottom with such gusto.

“No sir,” he said. “Do I have to give the heart back?”

Watson looked startled. “Say again?”

Sherlock nodded towards the second heart sitting on his lab bench. He was harbouring hopes he might keep it.

“Oh that,” Watson said. “Yeah, you probably should.”

Sherlock sighed. “All right.”

Watson clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad,” he said and returned to the front of the class to begin directing the dissection.

Sherlock picked up his scalpel and did his best to put the whole puzzling incident to the back of his mind. For the most part he succeeded. Then on Saturday morning he discovered the consequences of receiving one of the mysterious chits.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Saturday assembly was the end of lessons and last day of Sherlock’s first full week. It was the one occasion where the entire school gathered together, sitting in rows in the main hall. In this, as all other things, there was a hierarchy about who was allowed to sit where. The younger boys sat cross legged on the floor towards the front. The sixth formers were permitted to sit on hard wooden gym benches in two rows behind them. Prefects had individual plastic seats and sat on a raised dais at the back of the hall where they could keep a watchful eye on their charges. The masters were ranked along each side in order of seniority, each in his own comfortably padded chair. The headmaster sat on the stage behind an ornately carved wooden table which would not have looked out of place in an Elizabethan manor house. It was, Sherlock thought, all very feudal.

The assembly was the usual mixture of improving readings and lacklustre singing. Sherlock paid little attention. He was not alone in his neglect. A suppressed sense of carnival hung in the air. The hall was alive with a buzz of whispered conversation, the boys fizzing with excitement at the imminent start of the weekend. The head boy had to call for silence twice before he could finish reading final announcements . Eventually, he left the stage. Sherlock thought they might at last be winding up when the Head, who had been silent thus far, rose to his feet. He was a large man, captain of the school first fifteen in his time, Sherlock was given to understand, and now forever chasing after that former glory.

“I’m afraid,” the Head said sonorously, “that even this early in the term we have two pupils on report. Fairclough and Donoghue – bring up your chits.”

A hush fell over the assembled gathering. It was similar to the phenomenon Sherlock had witnessed in Dr Watson’s lesson, but in the high-ceilinged hall the effect was magnified tenfold. Two sixth formers left their places on benches and walked down the central aisle and up the short flight of steps onto the stage. Each held a small slip of pink paper in his hand - the chit, Sherlock assumed. The slips were handed over and the Head read out what was on them - some record of their misdeeds - Sherlock wasn't listening. The head boy had returned to the stage holding a crook-handled rattan cane - long, slender, yellow and wicked-looking. A finger of ice ran down Sherlock's back. No wonder Townsend had opted for immediate punishment.

Preliminaries over, the two wrongdoers were made to turn and face the table. Sherlock thought he knew what was to come, but there was a further humiliation in store. At a word from the Head they unbuttoned and unzipped their grey flannel trousers, dropping them to their ankles. Sherlock's fingernails dug into his palm in shock even as his cock twitched in involuntary, misguided response. Both students were wearing the regulation school underwear - white close-fitting trunks. For a horrified moment he thought they would be made to drop these too and receive the caning on their bare behinds, but they were permitted to retain those small scraps of dignity.

The first to lean over the table - Fairclough Sherlock thought - was a tall, well-made young man with long, muscular legs covered in fine dark hair and a firm, pert backside. The Head nodded in satisfaction as though contemplating a particularly fine prize and held out his hand for the cane. The head boy presented it to him with a ceremonial flourish that Sherlock found distasteful. The hall had fallen utterly silent. The Head tapped the cane once lightly across Fairclough’s backside to get his aim. Sherlock didn't think he imagined the nervous quiver that trembled the waiting flesh. The Head raised his arm to shoulder height. There was a moment's awful anticipation, then a high pitched whooshing and a dreadful crack. The cane landed hard across the tight undercurve of Fairclough’s behind. The collective _'oh'_ from the audience did not quite drown out his sharp cry of pain.

In total the Head applied six deliberate slashes across Fairclough’s stricken buttocks, punishing them until they squirmed and shuddered beneath his tender care. Each crack shot down Sherlock's spine like an electric shock. The calculated indignity of the brutal little piece of theatre both fascinated and repulsed him. The thought of being made to take down his trousers and bend over in full sight of the school had him fidgeting on the hard wooden bench. After the sixth stroke, the Head returned the cane to the head boy and mopped his brow. Fairclough had his face buried in his hands, trying to conceal his shame, but he wasn't permitted  to stand up or alter his position in any way. Sherlock could just make out the edge of an angry red strip running along the underside of one buttock, half concealed by the tight white shorts.

Donoghue was broader in build, red-haired and pale skinned with a round, noticeably well-fleshed, bottom that his underwear struggled to contain. Having witnessed at close quarters what Fairclough had endured he was understandably less than sanguine about undergoing his own ordeal. After the first stroke he leapt up as if he'd been scalded and, had his trousers not hobbled him, Sherlock thought he would have been away and down the stairs. For the remainder of the punishment the head boy kept hold of his collar while the Head planted one hand in the small of his back. The first stroke was discounted and the cane whipped six more times into Donoghue’s beefy behind as he struggled and howled and kicked his legs. Sherlock winced at every dreadful crack even as he wriggled in his seat. By the time the Head was finished, Donoghue was blubbing in earnest and Sherlock’s cock was as stiff as an iron rod.

Even then the ordeal wasn't over. The Head left the two sinners in place, trousers around their ankles, well-thrashed hindquarters displayed to a rapt audience while he stood between them and delivered a sanctimonious little homily on the importance of discipline. Only when he had dismissed the school for the weekend were Fairclough and Donoghue permitted to stand, pull up their trousers and slink from the scene of their disgrace.

Throngs of students streamed from the hall. Sherlock followed behind, his underwear chafing at every step. He ducked into the first toilets he could find and in the privacy of the cubicle pulled open his trousers, his hands shaking with urgency. His erection sprung free, dark red and swollen, the front of his underwear already wet through. It took only a few hasty, slippery tugs to bring himself off and he shot his load with a series of frenetic jerks that bent him double with their intensity, then slumped gasping against the wall. When his heart had finally slowed its pounding, he adjusted his clothing, washed his hands and went to queue for the telephones. His brother had some explaining to do.

 

* * *

 

Though he was loath to admit it, Sherlock did on occasion pay attention to Mycroft and in this instance he was correct: the important thing was not to be caught. The system was simple. For a minor misdemeanor a student would receive a yellow chit: a slip of paper signed by the master. This meant an evening, or sometimes two, in detention. For exceptionally bad conduct or poor performance the penalty was the dreaded pink chit. These were handed in at Saturday assembly and meant an automatic caning from the Head. Any student receiving three yellow chits in a term received a pink in addition. Dr Watson, Sherlock learned, was unusual in offering an immediate thrashing as an alternative. This was widely agreed to be the better option. Not only did it avoid the cane, and all its surrounding theatre, it also bypassed the horrible wait for Saturday morning which, veterans of the system claimed, were almost as bad as the caning itself.

All of this remained theoretical however, for the first few weeks. Sherlock kept his head down and his nose clean, learning the ropes. But old habits died hard and they were not halfway through the term when he found himself kept after class to see Dr Watson. The issue was his performance in a recent mock exam.

“This question here, number eight, for example,” Watson said. “The question is: ‘why should we avoid deforestation?’ Twelve marks.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“You've written: ‘because it’s dull,’ and here, this one earlier, number five,” Watson flipped through the pages of the exam booklet, “the question is: ‘what are the four critical elements of photosynthesis?’ Nice easy question, half a mark for each element. You've written: ‘water’, ‘carbon dioxide’, ‘solar energy’ and ‘dull’.”

“Yes.”

“You see, what I was looking for with that last one was ‘chlorophyll’.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Really?”

“Yep. And on question ten, which was about malaria and sickle cell anaemia, ring any bells?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock nodded. He remembered that one.

“You've written,” Watson counted through the sheets, “well, you've written five pages. And I have to say they’re very good. Clear, coherently argued, excellent use of references and huge breadth of knowledge. Honestly, better than a lot of stuff I've seen in the text books.”

Sherlock permitted himself a modest smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“It was three marks, Holmes!” Watson exploded, making him jump. “You had four lines to fill!” He shuffled the pages back into order, squared them neatly and placed them onto his desk. “Now,” he said in a quieter voice, “what does all this tell us?”

Sherlock looked at Dr Watson’s square, capable looking hand, resting on top of his exam script and felt the first faint inklings of foreboding. “The importance of good exam technique?” he hazarded.

“No,” said Watson.

“No?” said Sherlock perplexed.

“No. It’s more than that. You got a D, Holmes. In my entire time at this school, I've never had a pupil get less than a C grade at A-level. Even the really dull students, we coach them, we spend extra time on them and we bring them up to the mark. That’s what their parents pay us for and that's what we do. Now you,” here he sat back at his desk and jabbed a stubby finger at Sherlock, “ _you_ on the other hand might actually get a D unless you pull your socks up. Not because you’re stupid, far from it, but because you seem to think you can pick and choose what you learn.” He glared at Sherlock for a moment then, with some effort, arranged his face into its usual expression of mild concern. “Now Holmes - Sherlock - as your form tutor-”

“Are you?” Sherlock interrupted in surprise.

It was Dr Watson’s turn to look perplexed. “Well yes. I thought we talked about this back in August?”

“What happened in August?”

“I spent a morning showing you and your brother around the school.”

“Was that you?” said Sherlock. “You looked different.” He had a vague memory of a short, sandy-haired man marching them through the corridors but for the most part he’d tuned out. He'd left the talking to Mycroft. He always had a lot to say.

“I was wearing a suit,” said Watson. “But even allowing for that, Sherlock, I take the register every day at the start of class. Haven't you noticed?”

Sherlock shrugged. The school had numerous bizarre and archaic rituals. He couldn't be expected to know all of them.

Dr Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you pay any attention at all to things you’re not interested in?” he said.

There was a long pause. Sherlock suspected this was neither the time nor the place for an honest response.

After a minute Dr Watson reached a similar conclusion. “All right, don’t answer that. Anyway Sherlock, as your form tutor - which I am by the way, hello - I’m responsible for making sure you reach your full potential.” Here his voice grew steely. “I'm here to keep you up to the mark. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“That means I expect you to pay attention to the dull stuff too. And learn it. Even if you find it dull.”

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock. He supposed he could try. He was receiving the strong impression that it would be unwise to get on Dr Watson’s wrong side.

“And if you don't, believe me there will be consequences.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good,” said Watson. “That’s all clear. I'll expect As and Bs from now on.” He put the exam paper into his desk and locked the drawer. “Your brother talked to me about you, Sherlock. He said you were a bright lad but you lacked discipline. I can see what he meant. This school is big on discipline, you might have noticed.”

Sherlock nodded. He’d noticed.

“That said, plenty of students manage their entire school career without ever having to experience it. I strongly advise you follow their lead.”

“Yes sir.”

“All right.” Dr Watson stood and began gathering up his belongings. The interview was coming to a close. “Ever had it before?” he said suddenly. “The cane on your bottom?”

Startled, Sherlock shook his head. “No sir.”

“You wouldn't like it,” Watson said with confidence. “Now jog on. Let’s not have this conversation again.”

 

* * *

 

It might have been expected that after such a dire warning Sherlock would improve his performance, and to some extent he did, at least in Dr Watson’s classes. Other masters however, had more difficulty in commanding his attention. Chemistry, at which he excelled, was a particular trial and by the start of the new half term Sherlock found himself in possession of his first yellow chit. He spent the evening in detention under the short-sighted gaze of Mr Hart. The first part of his task was a series of exercises on equilibrium reactions, which he didn't mind in the slightest. The second was a hundred lines of ‘I must answer the question I am asked’, which he did. He distracted himself from the boredom by altering his hand writing, writing first with his right hand and then with his left, adding on flourishes and fancy curlicues as he went.

He was so absorbed he barely noticed new footsteps entering the room. It was only when a familiar voice said: “I've come to take over for you now, Bob,” that he looked up and saw Dr Watson standing by the door. Sherlock's stomach dropped. He hadn't realised the masters supervised detentions in shifts. Mr Hart, an inoffensive geography master counting down the months to retirement, had spent his portion of the supervision sitting at the front table peering at a copy of _National Geographic_. Dr Watson, however, took a more active approach, patrolling between the ranked rows of desks like an invigilator in an exam. When he reached Sherlock he paused.

“Didn't expect to see you in detention, Sherlock,” he said. “You almost done?”

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock sitting up straighter.

“Bring them to the front when you’re finished.”

Sherlock swallowed. He had a sinking feeling that Dr Watson’s scrutiny would be far more taxing than Mr Hart’s. He wrote the final twenty lines in his best penmanship and sorted the pages carefully, putting the neatest on top.

As he’d feared, Dr Watson was not so easily fooled. “‘I must answer the question I am asked’,” he read. “I thought we’d had that conversation.” When he reached the second page his eyebrows began to climb. “Is that Greek?” he said, pointing to one particularly ornate line.

“Sir,” said Sherlock, carefully non-committal.

Dr Watson read on. As the handwriting grew more slapdash, the humour drained from his eyes. When he was done he gave Sherlock a long cool stare. “You’re sailing a bit close to the wind here, Sherlock,” he observed. “You sure this is the route you want to go down?”

“Sir,” said Sherlock feeling two inches high.

Watson studied him a moment longer, then tore the pages in two with a rip that rang out like a pistol shot. “You’ll write me another fifty,” he said. “‘Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked.’”

Sherlock blinked in shock. “Sir?” he said, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked. Fifty times in your best handwriting. Get to it.”

Sherlock took a clean sheet of paper and returned to his desk. _Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked_ , he wrote. His hands were sweating and it was an effort to grip the pen. _Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked_. Was it an empty threat or did Dr Watson really mean to spank him when he was done? There was a tingling in his belly; equal parts dread and nervous anticipation. _Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked._

By the time he was done only the two of them were left in detention. The other students had long since finished and hurried off to the day room to salvage the remainder of their evenings.

“All done?” Watson said as he put down his pen.

“Yes sir.”

“Bring them up.”

Sherlock walked slowly to the front desk. He knew now why Townsend had dragged his feet. He handed over the paper and waited as Dr Watson glanced over it.

“May I go now, sir?” he asked after an eternity had passed.

“That depends,” said Watson. He turned over the page. “What happens to naughty boys, Sherlock?”

“They get their bottoms smacked, sir,” Sherlock whispered through dry lips.

“And don’t you forget it,” said Watson. “All right, off you go.”

 

* * *

 

His first pink slip was, in Sherlock’s view, deeply unfair. He took it to Dr Watson to complain.

“It says here you set fire to another student,” said Watson incredulously. His usual air of unflappable calm had frayed at the edges. “You’re in the sixth form, for God’s sake. We’re meant to be able to leave you alone for five minutes without you setting fire to each other!”

“I didn't set fire to him,” Sherlock said irritably, his throat was still scratchy from smoke inhalation. “He set fire to himself. It was his stupid hair and his stupid hair gel. He got it into the flame and it went up like a piece of dry tinder.”

Dr Watson shook his head. “One day a fortnight I get off, and this is what happens. Stay here. Don't move an inch. Do not set fire to anything. I need to talk to Professor Young.”

Sherlock waited obediently in the empty form room, occasionally rubbing at his eyebrow. It itched. When Dr Watson returned fifteen minutes later he was in a more thoughtful frame of mind.

“My question Sherlock,” he said, “is why were you playing with a Bunsen burner when you were meant to be carrying out a titration?”

“I wasn't playing,” said Sherlock “I was doing an experiment. Exothermic reactions. It was in the next chapter, I was reading ahead.”

“But you were meant to be doing a titration.”

“I’d done the titration. I’d written it up. I was finished. I was occupying myself in a productive fashion until Professor Young returned. I thought that was what I was meant to do. It was all going perfectly well until Carter stuck his nose in.”

“So why not do another titration? Repeat the experiment - confirm your findings.”

“It's boring. I'd done it once already.”

“Yeah, but that’s not how science works, is it?” said Watson. “You don’t send an article off for publication with a section in the methodology that says: ‘didn't repeat the experiment; couldn't be arsed.’ If you want to be a scientist, you’re going to have get used to verifying your results.”

Sherlock scowled. The point was sound. “All right,” he conceded grudgingly. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.”

“Hallelujah,” Watson muttered. He pushed a hand through his hair, dishevelling it into soft sandy spikes. “What are we going to do with you, Sherlock? You set fire to another student.”

“I put him out again.”

“Yeah,” Watson admitted. “Yeah, well that’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s the one thing everyone seems to agree on. You pushed him to the floor, wrapped him in your blazer and beat out the flames with your bare hands. Carter could have ended up with skin grafts. As it is, all he’s ended up with is shorter hair. As your form tutor, I’m appalled at your irresponsible behaviour. As a GP, I want to give you a medal.”

“Well, I couldn't let him burn to death,” said Sherlock. His ears turned pink at the unexpected praise.

“A lot of people would have panicked,” Watson said. “Masters as well as boys.” He considered Sherlock a while longer. “Look,” he said eventually. “I’m going to speak to the Head and see if we can get this,” he waved the pink slip, “downgraded to yellow, on account of your presence of mind saving Carter from a nasty injury.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock said.

“Okay. But that’s it now, Sherlock. You’re on your last warning.  If you put another foot out of step – any yellow slips, any complaints from the staff, anything at all - you’re going straight to the Head. No arguments, no excuses, no second chances. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock.

“All right,” said Watson. He paused at the door. “How’s your eyebrow?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It will grow back.”

* * *

 

In the end however, it was not school work but a simple matter of untidiness which led to his downfall.

“They’re going to cane me, Mycroft,” he whispered urgently into the telephone receiver, “they’re going to haul me up in front of the school and cane me, just for leaving my dressing gown on the floor.”

“And what was wrong with the dressing gown?” Mycroft enquired. “Was it soaked in some toxic chemical? Was it, perhaps, on fire?”

“Of course not!”

“You say that as though it had never happened before.”

“It was just a dressing gown,” said Sherlock. “One of the housekeepers complained about the mess.”

“Well perhaps that will teach you to take better care of your belongings,” said Mycroft. A disturbance in the background meant he had to shout to make himself heard. “You always have been rather slapdash about such things.”

Sherlock's jaw dropped in disbelief. “It’s hardly a caning offence, Mycroft.”

“I did warn you Sherlock, not to get caught.”

“But it doesn't merit a public flogging. Surely you can see that. You have to _do_ something.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, I am currently four time zones away in a country where, if my presence were discovered, the British Government would deny all knowledge of my existence. What exactly is it that you expect me to do?”

“Call the headmaster. Talk to him!”

A burst of static drowned out any reply.

“I can barely hear you,” Sherlock said.

“Let me move away from the window. I said: what would you have me say?”

“Mycroft please,” he said playing his last, best card, “you’ll think of something, big brother. _Please_.”

There was a long pause. “It is the public nature of the event you particularly object to?” Mycroft said eventually. “You would accept some alternative punishment?”

“It was just my dressing gown!”

“You must give me something I can offer.”

Sherlock’s mind raced. A public caning. His trousers pulled down. Bent over. Forced to display his shame to the entire school. “Yes,” he said, knowing he was making a tactical error but too desperate to care. “Yes. If you have to. Tell them I’ll do lines, or lab work or something, anything, but that.”

“Oh I expect I probably _will_ have to, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Despite your heartfelt protests I do suspect there is some background to this incident that you are not providing me which-” he was interrupted by a sharp rattling noise.

Sherlock blinked at the receiver. “Is that gunfire?”

“Nothing to worry about,” said Mycroft, a little out of breath, “-which will become clear once I speak to the headmaster.”

“All right,” said Sherlock. “Just not in front of everyone. Please.”

“Very well,” said Mycroft. “I may be able to broker something. Give me a few days. I will see what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the day on tenterhooks and passed a restless wakeful night. The following afternoon he found a pink chit in his pigeon hole. It was marked with the day’s date and initialled JHW. On the other side it said in a small neat hand:

_19:00 Senior Common Room_

_See me._

 


	3. Chapter 3

The Senior Common Room provided a place for the masters to relax when they weren't on duty. It was located in the east wing of the school, well away from the hurly-burly of the boys’ quarters. The seclusion provided some small consolation to Sherlock as he loitered outside, pink slip in hand, waiting for the bell in the clock tower to strike seven. As the last chimes faded away, he screwed up his courage and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

Mr Hart, the geography master, answered. “Yes?” he said, peering at Sherlock through thick-lensed glasses.

“I’m here to see Dr Watson,” said Sherlock. He wondered uneasily if Mr Hart knew why.

“Oh yes,” said Mr Hart with an alacrity which made Sherlock think he probably did, “he’s in the study.” He pointed toward a door at the far side of the Common Room.

With a sense of impending doom, Sherlock stepped inside. In other circumstances he would have been intent on mapping out this uncharted territory. Now however, he had more pressing matters on his mind. The air smelled of coffee and cigars. He had a fleeting impression of a large square room - high backed armchairs, little tables, a television in one corner - but most of his attention was on the study door. As he drew closer, he saw an envelope had been pinned to it. On it was written in neat capitals:

 

_RESERVED - JHW 19:00 - 20:00_

 

His stomach lurched at this terse communication. The doctor couldn't intend to beat him for a full hour, surely? He’d have no bottom left. Perhaps Mycroft had managed to negotiate lines. He tapped on the door. It swung open instantly. Dr Watson waited inside, his face like thunder. Sherlock knew at first glance it wasn't lines.

“Sherlock,” Watson said stepping aside. “Come in.”

The study was a smaller, book-lined room containing a number of tables and cupboards, a desktop computer and a leather sofa. Dr Watson took a seat at one of the tables. He was wearing jeans this evening and a checked shirt, rather than his school day uniform of smart trousers and jumper. It made him look slightly foreign, an unknown entity. Sherlock stood before him, his hands behind his back, trying to keep his knees from knocking.

“Now Sherlock,” Watson said formally “you’ve received three yellow chits this term and that means an automatic pink. Normally you would be caned for that in Saturday assembly, as I think you well know.”

“Yes sir.”

“Now your brother’s been in touch. He’s asked if you can receive an alternative punishment. It’s not usual but he pays your fees so he does get some say.”

“Mycroft pays my fees?” Sherlock said momentarily distracted. In as much as he’d thought about it, he'd assumed their parents paid.

Dr Watson shrugged. “I don’t know the details. Anyway, as the Head said to your brother, it wouldn't be fair to the other students for you to be let off lightly. If we make an exception for one student then everyone will be asking for clemency."

“I see,” said Sherlock. He doubted the Head was concerned about fairness. He was simply aggrieved at being denied the opportunity to dispense another flogging.

“So the Head came to see me, as your form tutor, to discuss an appropriate alternative. Not a lesser punishment but an alternative one, do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock, giddy from sudden relief. It would be the board ruler. That was why he had been called to see Dr Watson and not the Head. Bless Mycroft. It was almost enough to redeem him for sending Sherlock to this hellhole.

“And we have agreed that you will come to see me every Friday until the end of term.”

There was a pause while Sherlock processed the words. Lack of sleep had dulled his wits. “But it’s another month to the Christmas holidays, sir,” he said blankly.

“Exactly,” said Watson with a grim satisfaction that Sherlock found uncharming.

“But that means-”

“That means you are going to be seeing me four times in total, yes. That’s what we suggested to your brother and that’s what he agreed.”

 _Damn_  Mycroft. This time Sherlock didn’t need to say anything, his expression spoke for him.

“I did tell you,” Watson said, “if you didn’t pull your socks up, then you wouldn’t like the consequences. You've brought this on yourself. Do you have the pink chit?”

Sherlock handed it to him dumbly, his mind still racing with the implications of being called to the study four Fridays on the trot to subject himself to the doctor’s tender mercies.

“All right,” said Watson in a businesslike fashion. “So it says here you left your room untidy.”

“Yes sir.”

The doctor produced a pen and made a note on the slip of paper, then stood and began rummaging in a tall cupboard beside the sofa. Inside, Sherlock caught sight of a number of plimsolls, a long ruler, a flat paddle, somewhat like a cricket bat, and what looked like a coiled belt. It appeared he was not the first unfortunate called to the study to receive his comeuppance. After a few moments, the doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“Say hello to Percy,” he said.

‘Percy’ was a well-worn man's brown leather slipper, the flat black sole shiny with use. Sherlock stared at it in disbelief. A slipper? It didn’t seem particularly formidable but it was so _childish_. Deliberately so, he thought, a calculated indignity. He might almost have preferred the cane. There was a certain cachet about surviving a caning; he would never be able to brag about being slippered. 

Dr Watson slapped the slipper against his palm with a loud crack that made Sherlock jump. “I’m going to give you a dozen with Percy here, for not keeping your room tidy," he said. “And then, for the pink chit, I’m going to spank you. And that’s what you’ll be getting every Friday until the end of term.”

Sherlock’s face flamed at the shocking words. “ _Spank_ me, sir?” he said, hardly able to believe his ears. A thousand questions raced through his mind. A spanking, at his age - was that normal? Was it even allowed? He stared at Dr Watson, wondering if he were joking. Dr Watson stared back. He most definitely did not look like he was joking.

“But nothing,” he said. “You received a pink chit and you’re being spanked for it, young man.”

Sherlock remembered the square, hard-looking hand resting on his exam paper and felt the skin on his bottom tighten in apprehension. “But,” he repeated weakly. There was a tickle at the base of his pelvis, a faint but unmistakable bubble of excitement. He’d never been spanked in his life. Not by his mother, not by Mycroft, certainly not by his softly-spoken, gentle-mannered father. And now Dr Watson was planning to spank him not once, but four times.

His consternation seemed to cause the doctor a certain dark amusement. “I told you what happens to naughty boys, Sherlock,” he said. “Now trousers down and bend over the arm of the sofa.”

The moment had arrived. Sherlock took off his blazer and hung it carefully from the back of a chair. Then he stood by the sofa and unbuttoned his trousers with unsteady hands. He had worn the regulation school underwear, not wanting to get into more trouble for uniform infringement. The little trunks were tighter than he was used to, and he tugged at them uneasily, trying to ensure they covered every inch of his buttocks, for all the scant protection they would provide. When he glanced down he could see the outline of his cock, not hard but definitely awake, pushing against the thin fabric. He bent over hastily, hoping Dr Watson hadn’t noticed. The position left his hips resting on the broad arm on the sofa while the upper part of his body hung down in the seat. His rear, thrust impertinently upwards, presented an easy target. The vulnerable skin across his bottom and upper thighs tingled with nervous dread.

“Do you understand why you’re here, Sherlock?” Dr Watson said. From the sound of his voice he too had moved to the side of the sofa.

Sherlock nodded, staring down at the leather cushion. The surface was worn and cracked, the leather starting to flake away. “I left my room untidy, sir.”

“And for that, you’re getting a dozen from Percy. I want you to count them out, and after each one I want you to say: ‘I must keep my belongings tidy.’ Got that?”

The school did love its little rituals. “Yes sir.”

“Are you ready?”

Sherlock rested his hands flat on the cushion and braced himself. "Yes sir."

Despite his brave words, he couldn't stop himself flinching when he felt the slipper pressed against the centre of his bottom, the smooth sole cool even through his cotton underwear. It pat-patted once, lightly, then vanished. There was a whisper of fabric as the doctor drew back his arm, and then he began. Despite a term of warnings, his first stroke still came as a surprise. He whacked the slipper onto Sherlock's rear with a long swing, using his upper body to power the shot as though knocking a cricket ball for six. Sherlock heard a whoosh before the slipper landed on the seat of his tightly stretched trunks with an almighty crack that pushed him into the sofa and reverberated spectacularly around the cramped study. Any hope he might have had that the masters in the Common Room wouldn’t know of his punishment were instantly dashed. The sound could have been heard halfway across the school playing fields. For a second he felt nothing. The slipper had struck right across the centre of his behind. Then a searing heat blazed across his buttocks.

“Oh,” he said in shock, then as the pain registered, “ _Ow!_ ”

“Ow what, Sherlock?” said the doctor with heavy patience.

“I must keep my belongings tidy,” said Sherlock hastily, not wanting to make Dr Watson crosser than he already was.

The slipper cracked down again, landing before the sting of the first whack had fully subsided.

“Two. I must keep my belongings tidy,” Sherlock said and gripped the sides of the firm leather cushion grimly.

“Better,” said Watson and brought down the slipper once more with a meaty thud. 

After half a dozen strokes he paused, but only to swap the slipper to his other hand. Sherlock remained in position, his bottom in the air and his ears ringing from the din. His entire backside felt red hot but the conflagration in his behind was nothing compared to his tumultuous emotions. Chagrin and indignation warred with dismay and shock. He hadn’t though the childish slipper would smart so. Perhaps fortunately, he wasn't given long to contemplate his predicament. The slipper pat-patted his behind once more, then the doctor was dealing out another six deliberate whacks across the seat of Sherlock's shorts. He paused after each stroke to let the fiery sting reach its peak before delivering the next. The technique was simple but effective; the pain built in fiery waves. By the time they'd reached the final three, Sherlock was wriggling on his belly in a futile attempt to escape Percy's stinging sole. The doctor had none of it, simply hauling him back into position and continuing on with his self-appointed task. 

Only when he had meted out the full measure did he speak and then only to say, “In the corner. Face the wall. And if I get any more reports of untidiness, it’ll be two dozen.”

In other circumstances Sherlock might have argued, but he was learning that Dr Watson was not a man to be crossed. He pulled up his trousers and did as he was told, standing in sullen silence. His bottom felt as though it had been stung by a hundred bees. He was sure it must be glowing. The burning increased as he waited, spreading to engulf his lower back and thighs. It was hard not to bounce up and down on the spot. His one comfort was that shock and pain had caused his incipient erection to subside.

Dr Watson used the interlude to finish up his paperwork. “A dozen with the slipper and a spanking,” he said, writing it down on the pink chit and signing his name against it.

Sherlock swallowed. On a bottom already hot and sore from the slipper, a spanking had become an alarming prospect. The mere though made his palms sweat and his buttocks clench nervously. Behind him, the leather cushions of the sofa creaked.

“Right,” said Watson, “let’s get this over with. Come here.”

Sherlock turned. Dr Watson was sitting in the centre of the sofa. After a moment he gestured Sherlock forward. It appeared he not only spanked his pupils, he took them across his lap to dispense their punishment. Sherlock's jaw dropped. He'd assumed he'd be bent over the sofa arm again. He'd never imagined something like this could happen to one of the sixth form.

“You can’t!” he blurted.

Dr Watson cocked his head half annoyed, half amused. “I can, you know,” he said. “Or do you want to see the Headmaster instead?”

For a second Sherlock actually considered it, but it would mean the cane biting into his already painful backside and the additional horror of a public beating. “No sir,” he said.

“Then stop stalling and come here.” The doctor's face darkened. “And don’t make me come and get you, Sherlock. I’m not in the mood for silly games.”

Had it been any other master Sherlock would have scoffed, but there was something about Dr Watson’s compact, sturdy form that suggested that perhaps, if Dr Watson wanted to, he could carry out his threat and a look in his eye that said, quite clearly, that in any case Sherlock really didn’t want to find out. Reluctantly, he abandoned his corner and crossed to Dr Watson’s side, standing before the sofa with his head bowed. The doctor guided him into position, tugging down Sherlock’s trousers as he bent so they bunched around his knees. His school shirt rode up and his bare belly ended up pressed tight over one denimed thigh, his forehead and knees resting on the sofa cushions. The result was to tilt his behind into the perfect position for continued punishment. The cushion was cool against his flushed face; the doctor's thigh warm beneath his stomach. He breathed in the scent of leather mingled with washing powder and his own perspiration. Blood surged in his ears and the sore, tight skin of his bottom throbbed in apprehension. He didn’t want to be spanked.

“I don’t expect students of your age to be receiving pink chits,” Dr Watson said. Sherlock could feel the low rumble of his voice as it travelled from his chest. “It’s my job to keep you up to the mark, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“Yes sir,” said Sherlock into the leather cushion. “How many please, sir?”

The answer was not reassuring. Watson raised his hand and brought it down with a resounding slap. “As many as I think you need.”

After that he said very little for a few minutes, concentrating on dealing out a series of hard, crisp smacks that stung Sherlock’s wincing buttocks and quivering thighs. He spanked slowly, almost impersonally, with gradually increasing weight, pausing only to swap sides and subject the other buttock to the same firm treatment. Each slap rang out like a shot. To Sherlock’s shame, tears sprung to his eyes.The pain was bad enough, but even worse was the indignity, the sheer outrage, of being treated like a child - of being forced to lie over the doctor's lap with his trousers around his knees and his burning bottom presented for punishment, and take what he was given. He ground his teeth in ineffectual fury. He hated the school, Watson, Mycroft, the world. 

But worse was to come. This time when Dr Watson paused, he kept Sherlock across his knee and scolded him. Sherlock heard snatched words through his harsh breathing - _punished, naughty, smacked bottom_ \- and felt his face turn crimson with mortification. He was getting hard again even though his bottom was hot and stinging. Something about being held in position while Dr Watson lectured made his cock swell, even as his backside throbbed and ached. He couldn't help it. The doctor's words travelled straight down his spine to his cock, bypassing his brain entirely, leaving him in equal parts furious, humiliated and aroused.

His feet scrabbled against the worn leather, but as before any attempt to escape was quickly thwarted. A firm hand in the centre of his back pinned him in place and he could only wriggle in ineffectual protest as his scolding continued – _disobedient,_ _discipline, good hard spanking_. Then the doctor resumed, laying the flat of his palm into the centre of Sherlock’s smarting checks with renewed vigour. He thrashed beneath the fresh onslaught, trying to get away, or perhaps closer, he no longer knew. His erection pressed forward, seeking friction but Dr Watson’s short powerful thighs were spread wide and he thrust futilely into a void. Each smack hurt; still his cock tented his underwear and ached for release. His hips heaved. His balls tightened. Every muscle in his body flexed as he struggled to come. The doctor shifted his grip, paused for a moment judging his aim, then slapped him, once, twice, three times across the bare skin of his upper thighs. The pain was shocking - scalding hot - and it tipped him straight over the edge, yelping and squirming, deeply ashamed even as he ejaculated in a long, slow difficult pulse, his body straining with the effort of pumping it all out.

It hurt even while he came, and still there was no respite. The doctor kept on spanking. His hand rose and fell steady as a metronome, beating out Sherlock’s punishment in four four time, not stopping until every echo of pleasure had been smacked away.

“ _That_ ,” he said as he spanked, “is for behaving like a child all term. And _that_ is for failing your Biology mock. And _that_ is for not paying attention in Professor Young’s lessons. And _that_ is for mucking around in detention. And _these,”_ \- four final humdingers that made Sherlock’s teeth shake - “are for making me work on a Friday night!”

The barrage concluded as abruptly as it had begun. The study was suddenly silent. Sherlock lay prone for a few moments, gasping for air like a stranded fish, barely daring to believe it was over. Then, at last, he was allowed to struggle to his feet.

“Corner,” said Dr Watson succinctly. If he realised what had happened, nothing in his voice or manner gave him away.

Sherlock turned his back and fumbled up his trousers, trying to preserve some shred of dignity. Then he shuffled into the corner and faced the wall, panting still and biting his lip. After a moment, necessity won out over pride and he gripped his sore bottom with both hands, trying to squeeze away the vicious smarting. Unshed tears stung his eyes: pain, but shame also and intense frustration. He had wanted so badly to come and it had been over so fast; his orgasm ruined before it had really begun. All his nervous tension, all the painful stimulation, all his reluctant arousal vanishing in an instant beneath the doctor's strict hand.

Dr Watson left him in the corner for almost ten minutes. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was intended as one last slight or as a kindness to allow him to compose himself before he faced the curious eyes of the school.

“All right,” he said eventually, “off you go. But I expect to see you in assembly tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice. He grabbed his blazer and fled, not daring to meet Dr Watson’s eyes. He staggered through the Senior Common Room as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him. As he climbed gingerly up the stairs to the dormitories, the bell in the clock tower struck eight. The doctor had judged correctly. His punishment had taken almost a full hour.

 

* * *

 

To his relief the dormitory was empty, his three dorm mates still in the day room. He pulled off his trousers then, wincing, his sticky underwear before retreating to the bathroom to inspect the damage. The flyspecked mirror revealed a sobering sight. His bottom was a deep rose pink from three inches below the waist to the top of his thighs, in vivid contrast to the pale skin of his torso and legs. Objectively speaking, he could see it had been a through and professional job. Not a single inch of his backside had been left unspanked but no raised welts or dark bruises marred the smooth skin. He ran an assessing hand over his reddened flesh. His buttocks felt as hot and swollen as they looked. His balls seemed swollen too. The spanking had caused an influx of blood to engorge his pelvis, causing every part to ache and throb.

He washed slowly. The rasp of the flannel on his sore skin made him hiss, but the cool water was soothing. When he was done he soaked a towel and went to lie down, yelping when his bottom made contact with the hard, unyielding mattress. Lying on his back was unthinkable; he rolled grimly onto his belly and draped the wet towel across his hips, pressing the wet fabric against his hot backside. He didn’t expect to sleep, but as the shock and adrenaline of his punishment wore off and the worst of the pain began to subside, the previous night’s wakefulness caught up with him. His eyelids drooped. He was asleep before the clock struck nine.

He woke an unknown amount of time later. The dormitory was in darkness and he could hear the steady breathing of his three dorm mates. The towel across his hips was bone dry, but his skin was covered with a light sheen of perspiration. His cock thrust thick between his thighs, prodding into the mattress in urgent demand. His bottom throbbed too badly to roll over. He pushed his pillow between his thighs instead and draped the towel over it, rubbing off against the rough material with greedy, furtive haste. The wooden bedstead was old and rickety, prone to squeaking. As he drew closer, its protests grew louder and more shrill. One of his dorm mates grunted and stirred. Sherlock froze in place, trembling on the brink, waiting for him to settle. When silence returned he began again. The squeaking resumed. The flexing of his hips reignited the fire in his backside but this time he couldn’t stop, humping the pillow frantically until, with a hastily-muffled yell, he shot a thick load into the waiting towel.

He spent all the following day hot, heavy-limbed, thick headed. Assembly was a trial. Sitting on the wooden bench a torment. Being forced to watch another unfortunate have the cane laid into his quivering behind was a particularly unpleasant twist - one that had him flinching in unwanted sympathy with every swish and crack. By Monday classes he had recovered sufficiently to be able to sit without wincing, though he still dared not look any of the masters in the eye. In any case, his rapid recovery gave him little comfort – his next appointment with Percy was only four days away.


	4. Chapter 4

The appointed hour came only too soon. In the intervening nights Sherlock had a series of torrid dreams in which Dr Watson pulled down his underwear and found him erect. Then t, Sherlock's intense shame, he was hauled over the doctor's lap and spanked on his bare bottom while being soundly scolded for his impertinence. When he came, as he inevitably did, the doctor reprimanded him and spanked him again for his lack of control. The details changed - sometimes his class was there, sometimes they were alone; sometimes Dr Watson wore an army uniform and once a rugby kit which left his mud-streaked thighs bare for Sherlock to rub against - but the cycle of pain, pleasure and pain remained constant. After the first night he slept with the towel beneath him to spare the sheets.

The reality, unfortunately, proved considerably less congenial. Friday night found the doctor in an energetic mood. He gave Sherlock a short lecture, a brisk, painful dose of the slipper then left him bent over the sofa arm with his trousers around his knees while he spanked him into true repentance with the air of a man who had a job to do. The hard percussive slap of his hand, combined with the vivid memory of the previous night’s dreams soon had a stimulating effect but, as before, Sherlock’s orgasm was short and deeply unsatisfying - a wretched little squirt - and there was no opportunity to enjoy it. Any relief he might have felt was instantly dispelled by shame and the bitter realisation that he was still being spanked and that now, without the cushioning effects of arousal, it really hurt. Nor did Dr Watson relent until Sherlock was snivelling from a mixture of humiliation and pain, and pleading for his punishment to be over.

“What did I tell you, Sherlock?” he said as Sherlock stood in the corner clutching his throbbing behind.

“Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked, sir.”

“You didn't believe me, did you?” said Watson. “But I think you do now.”

“Yes sir. Please sir. _Please_ may I be excused now, sir?”

 

* * *

 

So it was a chastised and rather sore Sherlock who eventually arrived home for the Christmas holidays. There he found Mycroft already ensconced at the breakfast table. He’d been granted a week’s leave over Christmas and was celebrating his return to civilisation by eating hot buttered muffins as though they were going out of style. His appearance came as something of a shock. He’d seen Sherlock off in September as a plump, rather pasty-faced Whitehall drone, rapidly entering middle age. He’d returned, from wherever it was he wasn't supposed to have been, with a coppery tan on his face and forearms, a hitherto unsuspected sprinkling of freckles across his nose and his clothes hanging from him.

“I’m not going back,” said Sherlock once their mother had hurried off to complete the last of the Christmas preparations. “You can’t make me.”

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous Sherlock. Mummy’s shown me your report, it’s the best you've had in years.”

He was toasting another round of muffins on the Aga. It was his particular ritual and he gave it his full attention. First, he would clamp the muffins into the wire toasting rack, arranging them just so, and place it onto the boiler plate. Next, he would turn the rack carefully over the heat watching like a hawk until its contents reached the perfect shade of golden brown. Then he would tip the piping hot muffins onto his plate, butter each half to within an inch of its life and slather it with bitter-sweet orange marmalade. Finally, he would cut the halves into four neat quarters and eat each piece with an air of perfect happiness which Sherlock found intensely annoying.

“They beat me four times for that pink chit, Mycroft. Four times! That’s what I got instead of a caning.” The last time had been only the previous evening. His bottom still stung with Dr Watson’s parting shots. And when it was over, Watson had had the gall to wish him a Merry Christmas, ‘and let’s try not to do this again in the New Year shall we, Sherlock?’

“Four times?” repeated Mycroft in apparent surprise. “Dear me, that does seem rather strict. Four times for one pink chit? Still you don’t seem to have taken any permanent damage and your report-”

“My report has nothing to do with it!”

Mycroft tipped the muffins onto his plate and resumed his seat. Sherlock remained resentfully standing.

“Have you ever wondered why, Sherlock,” he asked, “after years of blameless service, I have suddenly been posted to some hell-hole in the back of beyond? Were you under the impression perhaps, that I had grown bored with Whitehall and decided to broaden my horizons? That I had fallen prey to the fabled seven year itch?”

Sherlock shrugged. He hadn't thought about it.

“I can assure you, I had not,” said Mycroft. “In return for being prepared to endure certain vicissitudes I receive ‘enhanced payment,’ or what is known in common parlance as danger money. That is what is paying your school fees at present and therefore yes, as far as I am concerned, your report has everything to do with it.”

Sherlock scowled. He didn't like this new, thin, Mycroft, he'd decided. The weight loss made his face look vulpine. “No one’s making you,” he said. “I don’t see why you have to stick your nose in.”

“And how precisely do you intend to go to University otherwise,” Mycroft enquired, buttering with great vigour, “without A-levels, academic references or any other kind of school report? It’s only for another two terms. I do suggest you pull your socks up and behave yourself for once.”

“‘Pull my socks up?’” Sherlock repeated. The words had a familiar ring. “‘Pull my socks up or face the consequences’? Have you been talking to Dr Watson?”

“We spoke in August, yes,” said Mycroft, “and discussed your academic performance. You were there, as I recollect. And I spoke briefly to the school last month, as you yourself requested. I must say,” he added, dropping a spoonful of thick cut Seville orange marmalade onto his muffin with degree of complacent satisfaction, “that if your report is anything to go by, their methods seem to have been far more successful than anything our parents ever tried.”

“My God,” said Sherlock, in sudden realisation. “You’re enjoying this.”

Mycroft’s eyes opened very wide. “Enjoying it? Enjoying the thought of my little brother finally getting his just deserts? Why would you think such a thing?”

Sherlock had a vivid memory of the previous evening, bent over the sofa arm begging for his spanking to be over, and felt a hot wave of shame flood over him. “You pervert!”

“Hard words,” said Mycroft tranquilly. “I can assure you my schadenfreude, while genuine, is entirely chaste.”

“I bet you planned this all along.”

“No Sherlock,” said Mycroft, he popped a piece of muffin into his mouth and chewed carefully before continuing. “No. I simply gave you enough rope and you hanged yourself.”

“Bastard,” said Sherlock and incensed, snatched the last half muffin from Mycroft’s plate and crammed it into his mouth.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft snapped, as angry as Sherlock had ever seen him. “That was mine!”

Sherlock favoured him with a buttery sneer.

“Boys!” said their mother alerted by the sound of their raised voices. She came into the kitchen, carrying a trug of logs. “Must you squabble? It’s almost Christmas.”

“Sherlock has eaten the last muffin Mummy, and he knew I particularly wanted it.”

“He’s had three already,” said Sherlock indistinctly. “He didn't need another.”

Their mother sighed and knelt to stack the logs by the fireplace. “There are more in the pantry,” she said. “Sherlock, toast your brother another muffin.”

“There’s no point,” Mycroft said going to find them, “he’ll just burn it out of spite. Little brat,” he added with a venomous stare.

Sherlock ignored him. He was watching his mother. She looked tired, her blue eyes lacking their usual sparkle and snap. He had a feeling she’d used to employ someone to help make up the fires. She caught his eye and rose to her feet, brushing off her knees.

“Do try to play nicely, dear,” she said and gave him a peck on his cheek. She had to stand on tiptoes to reach. “I know he can be a bit overpowering but he’s only home for a week.”

“Well thank God for that,” Sherlock said.

She gave him a wry shake of the head, picked up the empty trug and left them to it.

“We should have spanked you years ago,” Mycroft muttered returning with a new packet of muffins. “It would have done you the world of good.”

Sherlock paid no attention. A number of facts had rearranged themselves in his mind. The school fees, the Burne-Jones, the logs. “Mycroft,” he said, “are we poor?”

Mycroft looked taken aback. Then he threw back his head and laughed. The sound was long, low and melodious. It reminded Sherlock unpleasantly of the headmaster.

“No, Sherlock,” he said when he recovered. “I don’t think anyone could accuse us of that.” He sobered. “But it’s fair to say, we find ourselves in somewhat straitened circumstances.”

“Why?”

Mycroft sighed and opened the packet of muffins. “Have you heard of the Lloyd's names?”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“No,” said Mycroft, “of course not. Why would you have? Why would you have paid any attention at all to anything that didn't interest you?”

“I can’t know everything,” Sherlock said in frustration. “I’m not _you_ , Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s expression softened. “Mummy is a talented mathematician,” he said eventually, choosing his words with care. “Perhaps, if she hadn't given up academia to have a family, a great one. Grandfather unfortunately, does not share her abilities. He made some unfortunate investments of the family capital and there isn’t much of it left. Mummy blames herself of course; she thinks she should have stopped him.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. He watched as Mycroft sliced a muffin in two and opened up the toasting rack. “Toast me one,” he said.

“I will not,” said Mycroft but he slipped another muffin into the rack before placing it onto the Aga.

“Is that why you’re paying my fees?”

“I offered to take them on,” said Mycroft, “to ease some of the burden and to contribute towards your University expenses, if required. It hardly seemed fair for you to be penalised for Grandfather’s poor choices.”

“Why didn't anyone tell me?”

“I suppose,” said Mycroft, flipping the toasting rack expertly, “we were trying to spare you the worry. You do have some important exams coming up and you are still very young.”

“I’m not a child, Mycroft.”

“So you keep insisting. Until of course, you phone me up and beg me to save you from a public caning. You can’t have it both ways, Sherlock. You are either an adult, and take responsibility for your actions, or you are not.” He tipped a muffin onto Sherlock’s plate. “And I warn you now: use up the last of the marmalade and I swear to God, Christmas will be cancelled.”

“You hate Christmas. Nothing would please you more,” said Sherlock, but he found a fresh pot of damson jam in the cupboard and opened that instead.

Mycroft resumed his seat at the table and began buttering once more. “Were you to perhaps, want to make a contribution of your own,” he said once the task had been completed to his satisfaction, “the school does have, in addition to its rather traditional disciplinary methods, a number of other features including some very generous bursaries for high performing pupils who win places at good universities.”

“Does it,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” said Mycroft scraping the last of the marmalade from the jar, “it does. Sufficient, I would think, to cover accommodation and books at the very least.”

Sherlock sat opposite his brother, wincing a little, and reached for the butter. “And were I to win such a bursary, would you be able to resign this foreign posting?”

Mycroft considered. “Well,” he said, “perhaps. It would certainly help.”

“I definitely shan't apply for one then,” Sherlock decided.

Mycroft’s smile was enigmatic. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the holiday passed fairly peaceably - although diplomatic relations were almost called off when Sherlock discovered Mycroft’s Christmas present to him was a large bottle of witch hazel and a card that read _Bottoms Up!!!_ \- much to their parent’s surprise. He returned to school in January if not resolved to do better, then at the very least determined to maintain a lower profile in his misdeeds.

Unfortunately, coasting proved to be not an option in the final crucial terms. Dr Watson took his promise to keep Sherlock up to the mark very seriously, although what part Mycroft played in this Sherlock never found out. Any grade less than an A minus was rewarded by a trip to see Percy, a phrase which Sherlock soon grew to loathe. Sadly, repeated use only made Percy's leather sole ever more supple and stingy, especially when applied to the top of Sherlock’s thighs, a spot that never failed to made him squirm across the sofa arm and vow to do better. On the one occasion he scored less than a B, Percy was augmented by the doctor's hard hand - an outcome which Sherlock continued to find infinitely more pleasant in imagination than reality. Used in tandem, slipper and hand provided as strict a disciplinary spanking as any a naughty schoolboy might ardently wish to avoid.

Though it hurt his pride, it didn't take Sherlock long to conclude that applying himself would be preferable to continuing to attend these regular appointments. Dr Watson sweetened the pill somewhat by allowing him a free period in the Biology lab to carry out his own research every week he maintained a clean sheet and redeemed himself further by writing an academic reference that praised Sherlock’s intelligence and resourcefulness at almost embarrassing length. What he thought of, or if he even noticed, Sherlock’s idiosyncratic reactions to being punished, Sherlock dared not enquire. Instead, in a very English fashion, he tucked the matter to the back of his mind and tried not to think about it, although Dr Watson and Percy were to remain a constant presence in his dreams for years to come.

And in the final analysis even Sherlock was forced to admit the year hadn't been a complete washout. With the help of Professor Young, he had his first letter published in a scientific journal. He won a place at University to read Chemistry alongside a substantial bursary. And he did, as Mycroft never tired of reminding him whenever the subject arose, get excellent A-level results.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A-levels: exams taken during the final year at school. Universities often make offers dependent on the student achieving certain grades.
> 
> The Lloyds names scandal: Lloyd's of London insurance policies were backed by wealthy British investors, known as "Names" because in the early days their signatures were written on the front of policy. Each Name pledged their personal wealth to underwrite a share in the syndicate's policies in return for any profits made from premiums. In the late 1980s and early 1990s a number of long-tail risks, such as Asbestosis, came to light. These resulted in insurance payouts years after the original policy was first underwritten. This left the Names personally liable for claims far in excess of their original investments. Many thousands went bankrupt.


End file.
